


Deceiver

by that_this_will_do



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - there's a good version and an evil version of everyone, Breathplay, Evil!Bellamy, Evil!Clarke, F/M, Gaslighting, Good!Bellamy, Good!Clarke, Possessive Behavior, Psychopaths In Love, Rape/Non-con Elements, Referenced Kidnapping, seriously people read the tags, trickery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-02-08 12:58:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18623761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_this_will_do/pseuds/that_this_will_do
Summary: Because she's in love with Bellamy Blake. And he really should do something about it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the anon who prompted on betts's amazing tumblr: i boggled my mind thinking of some fucked up bc. in a universe where everyone gets spilt in two- the good side and the bad side. so essentially everyone has a twin. good clarke loves good bellamy and vice versa but somehow they arent together...
> 
> Please heed the tags.

The electric razor hummed. The baseline of some mid-80s metal hit thudded away from the living room. The last sunlight of the day flitted in through the window-without-any-curtains. No screen either; it sat cracked open letting cigarette smoke out and cold winter air in. The lit end of the stub glowed indolently from its place on the ashtray.

Bit by bit, his beard disappeared as Rob Halford belted out the lyrics to _Deceiver_. First in chunks, then lathered with shaving cream and run over with a blade. Over and over, until his jaw felt smooth under his knuckles. Those too kept unused and unbroken. A thoroughly frustrating effort, and it would take forever to grow the beard back not to mention the hairstyle, but it would be worth it.

He stood up and knocked off the razor, drying his face with a towel. One last drag from his cigarette and he put it out. Then mouthwash to rinse out the taste.

In the bedroom, he pulled on the pair of new, plain, dark-wash jeans. His steel-toed heavies were left tossed in a corner in favor of fake-leather dress-boots from Macy’s. Topped it off with a blue button-down.

He looked himself over the bathroom mirror. Helmet-style hair to argyle socks. Clean-cut motherfucker. He grinned. Straightened upright and rearranged his face into how he’d smile if he weren’t an asshole. Goofy. Polite. _Nice to meet you_ and _I’ll have her home by midnight, sir_. He took a breath, settled into the role, internalized it. Would be a shame to put in all the prep and then have her call him on it.

He pulled on the black thrift store coat and grabbed the keys to the 2011 Honda that smelled like cheap air freshener and had seen better days. Climbed in behind the wheel and turned the ignition. A text range in--Clarke. His-Clarke.

_have fun tonight_

He held his phone up and took a quick picture of Mr. Nice Guy. _As much as I can_ he tapped out, attached the picture, and hit send.

Her reply came in immediately. _ew._

_never would have fucked you if you had looked like that_

He snorted. _I thought you were about to_ , he sent. _If you're finished stalking_

Middle-finger emoji. _that was for you asshole_

_Much appreciated, baby_. _Pic for goodluck?_

She sent him a photo of her tits pressed into a tiny black bralette. He could see her leather jacket hanging off her shoulders, framing her perfect rack. Bottom lip was painted red where she was biting into it. _He_ was getting lucky tonight.

He tossed his phone in the glove box and grabbed the other one. _His_ phone. Picked out _Clarke Griffin_ from the contacts list.

_On my way_

.o.

Three weeks ago Bellamy was at the grocery store on a Saturday morning at 9:30 AM. They needed toilet paper and eggs (apparently.) And milk and bacon. And brownie mix for edibles. And more Jack Daniels. And probably more lube. He was rapidly losing track of what all was really necessary and he was hungover as shit. He’d lost Clarke’s _lets play rock-paper-scissors while i’m on top of you_ nonsense that he’d been too close to coming to disagree with, so now he had to get the groceries. He’d spank her later. After they made pillsbury cinnamon rolls (on sale two for six dollars. Good deal). Client had come through the night before, so he couldn’t give a fuck about budgets.

He turned the corner looking at his phone because Clarke was texting him about needed strawberry icing and some shit and something barrelled into his side. He tripped trying to avoid falling into the shelves of canned beans. Ended up falling on his ass. Fucking shitty balance. He wheezed. Let the shopping basket fall from his grip.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry!” The voice was high-pitched and frantic. He winced. Opened his eyes to a pair of perfect tits hanging over him. He blinked a few times.

“Are you okay?” the woman asked again, softer this time. She was scrambling around picking up his groceries and stacking them back in the basket. He pushed himself off the ground and stood, looking down at her.

Long blonde hair, baby blue eyes. Curves he’d recognize anywhere. He took in the tasteful sweater, modest when she was upright. Skirt stopping just inches above her knees, leggings and fur-lined boots. She picked up the double large bottle of Jack Daniels and put it in the basket without comment. _Polite. Nice girl_. A dark thrill ran through him.

“Fine, thanks,” he said, voice still morning rumble. He took the basket from her outstretched hands. Nodded once. She looked up at him and froze, lips parting slightly. Her gaze ran down over his body, and when she met his eyes again he raised an eyebrow. She flushed.

“Sorry,” she said, cheeks pink. “Sorry, you look-- you look familiar I guess. Sorry, again, for knocking you over.”

Anticipation. But he kept his face impassive. “No worries.”

Nervous and overly friendly nodding. Blonde hair bobbing up and down. “Yeah, thanks!”

He hummed. Turned away to get the latest thing Clarke had texted him about. _Brat_.

The woman kept glancing at him, like she wasn’t sure if the appropriate next move was to say goodbye or just leave. Like she adhered to a standard of politeness. Possibly drilled in by a mother who stayed home more often… maybe ran a well respected medical practice that didn’t fly her all over the world. Like she was “brought up well.”

Another text from Clarke. Didn’t even look at it.

_I think I just met the good version of you,_ he sent

_really??!!_

His lips twitched as he put the phone back in his pocket. Several more messages came in within the next minute. He ignored them. Served her right making him go to the grocery on a Saturday fucking morning.

He watched... _Good_ -Clarke out of the corner of his eye as she glanced at him one last time, then scurried off down the next aisle. He waited a moment before setting the basket down on an empty bottom shelf and following her.

She picked up items efficiently. Worked off a list on her phone. The intense focus and adorable thinking face were familiar. Smart princess. The tone was not. Wide eyed earnest and lip between her teeth. Asked an employee where something was. _Could you help me find… ?_ Probably said please and thank you. Went by the cosmetics aisle and picked up shampoo, conditioner, and lipstick. The long hair made her look young. It would smell like coconut and vanilla, going by her shampoo brand. Maybe soft between his fingers. The product had nothing on the expensive craft shit he bought for Clarke, but still. He tossed a bottle of it in the basket for reference. Then Revlon _Rose and Shine_ lipstick.

Pink. Bright but soft. The kind a suitor would use to leave a message.

He backtracked to his basket, checked out, and drove home.

.o.

Clarke was on him the second he was through the door.

“Quit ignoring me, asshole.” He handed her the bag of her shit and went to the kitchen to make eggs.

“That’s not my name,” he replied mildly. Maybe mildly smug. “And that wasn’t very nice, baby.”

She sidled up to him. Pout and bedhead. Baby blue eyes. All demanding and bratty. Pressed her body against him. “You’re ignoring me, Daddy. I don’t like it.”

He settled a hand beneath a perfect breast. Flicked her nipple. “I don’t like traversing the grocery store for your whim and fancy, baby.”

She rolled her eyes. Gasped sharp when he pinched the nipple and twisted. Open mouth kisses and bites to her neck, chest. Old linen bathrobe pushed aside.

“What was she like?”

_Who?_ He wanted to ask, but she tilted her head and her short hair fell over her shoulders. He flicked her nipple with his tongue.

“Nice.” Licked around the underside of her breast. Got a shove to the shoulder. “Cute as fuck.”

“Obviously.” He slid a hand down and dipped into her pussy. She was wetter than brief nipple-play would justify. He pressed a thumb to her clit and index finger to her g-spot. Massaged lightly. She stifled a moan like she was on edge. Baby had been thinking about something.

He bit down on her nipple. She let out a breathy sound. “What was she wearing?” He curled his finger inside her and she whined.

“Blonde? Still 5’ 4”? Does she still have dimples? _Fuck,_ ” She was panting as he continued to stroke inside her. “My dimples are cute as fuck.” She whimpered.

“Physically identical, baby,” he said, lips against her breast. He bit down and sucked a mark into the skin. She whined. “But _nice_ ,” he whispered in her ear. Her pussy throbbed around his fingers. Something clicked.

“Are you wet for _her_ , baby?” She ground down. Shook her head meekly.

“Wet for you, Daddy.” He flicked her nipple. _Oh baby._

“Been thinking bad things about your double, baby?” Rubbed circles into her clit. Her nails dug into his chest. He kissed her neck up to her ear; sucked just behind it. Silent but for quick breathing. He knew her body better than she did. Much closer to the edge than usual.

“Been touching yourself thinking about it?” Reddened cheeks. She tried to pull away from his fingers as they turned harsh. He held her in place. Sharp squeaks.

“Didn’t see you asking permission in all those texts you sent me.” Picked up the pace he was keeping with her. She moved jerkily on top of him. Face screwed up. Overwhelmed.

“Couldn’t help it, Daddy,” she gasps. He chuckled. Other hand dragged lightly up her side. Shivered.

“Narcissistic much?”

She was quivering to stave off orgasm. “Like you didn’t think about it?” Her voice broke. “The two of us together, Daddy. Kissing. Fucking. _Fuck_. Begging to suck your cock. Begging to come… _Daddy, please._ ”  

He hadn’t actually thought about it. But now...

“God, fuck.” He pulled his fingers out. Unzipped his jeans. Jerked his cock a few times. She whined with the emptiness. Cried out as he slammed into her. Got a hard, fast rhythm going.

“Daddy!” Her face was red. She was already clamped around him. “We’d both be waiting for you to fuck us. Begging for your cock. _Please, fuck, Daddy_. Couldn’t come until you say.” She could barely get the words out. Disintegrated into pleading. Shrieked as he pounded into her.

“Come for me, baby.” He gritted his teeth. Fucked her through it. She tumbled from one to the next. Murmured, “hold her open while you fuck her,” and he was gone. Coming into her with a groan. Panted for a few seconds. Slipped out. She pulled him into a filthy kiss.

“Jesus fuck, baby.” He rested his head in the curve of her shoulder. Felt her grin against his forehead. Proud of herself. He slid his fingers back into her and she gasped. Pulled them out and let her suck his come off them.

His fingers slipped from her mouth and she wrinkled her nose. “Bet she wouldn’t do that for you.” Come eating was his kink that Clarke tolerated. Lucky him. Still.

He reached around a smacked her ass. She gasped indignantly.

“She’d be a good girl and wouldn’t complain.” Eye-roll. Another spank. Stifled moan. “First of many, baby.” Counted off on his fingers, lackadaisical. “Making me get up in the morning, the stunt you pulled with the molly last night, touching yourself without permission.” Studied her as she tried not to grin. “Coming without permission,” he said slowly. Kissed her again. And again. And again.

.o.

After breakfast (lunch), lunch (dinner), dinner (fucking), actual dinner (midnight snack), and a midnight snack (even more fucking). Phone call with a potential client. New hit to orchestrate. They were curled up on the couch since the bed was in ruins. Laundry tomorrow, before meeting Miller. He had his notepad balanced on a bent knee. Zoned out in logistics. Clarke’s typing away on her laptop a constant background noise.

“You’re curious about her, right?”

He blinked. Shifted where he was leaned against her. Her name was typed into a Google search bar.

“Obviously.”

She hit enter.

The first few results were actually about her. Clarke. Clarke Clarke. Bad-Clarke. His-Clarke. Her Facebook profile. A few news stories. An old mugshot. Then a lot of garbage about other people. He went back to the hit. Minutes passed. Zoned out again. (Tried to). Finally he felt Clarke jerk her shoulders victoriously. She was grinning.

“She _is_ cute.”

Facebook profile. Instagram. Private Twitter feed. And Linkedin page.

“Clarke Griffin,” Clarke said, “23 years old, born in Ohio but raised in California”--he snorted--”daughter of the prestigious Dr. and Dr. Griffin, world saving medical doctor and rocket engineer. Went to a private, all-girls high school”-- _fuck me_ \--”and Yale for college, just like her mother. 4.0 GPA. Works as a graphic designer. Glowing recommendations from former employers. Likes puppies and indie music. No criminal record”--obviously--”no traffic record”--surprising--”She’s bisexual.”

Mock casual: “Facebook friends with Bellamy Blake.”

But she didn’t say anything else. Waiting. He could feel her getting wound up beneath him.

He bit. “How long have they been together?”

She paused and licked her lips. He raised his eyebrows. Finally, “They’re not together.”

_What_.

“They’re what.”

“They’re not together.” Repeated with a touch of awe.

“Fuck, really?”

“Yep, as far as I can see.” She pulled up the VPN she was also running. “They met about a year ago through Octavia. They like the same music and movies. Sometimes they host games nights with their respective co-workers. Text each other at least once a day.”

“But they’re not together,” he stated.

“Nope.”

“That’s impossible.”

He couldn’t imagine life without Clarke. Could barely remember it. Met the first time when he was fifteen. Been together for eight years. A whole entire year and neither one of them made a move. _Damn._ Clarke nudged him.

“Maybe they’re not into each other.”

“That’s impossible,” he repeated. There was no universe.

She looked down and smiled. Small, secret smile that only he ever saw. He sat up fully and kissed her. After barely a second she was pulling away. Scheming face on.

“You know what this means?” Almost giddy.

“Oh?”

“She’s in love with Bellamy Blake.” Clarke said slowly. “Thinks about him all the time. Holding hands. Kissing. Fucking...”

She trailed off, but he could follow her grin--they were probably dancing around each other; wondering if their feelings were mutual; what their first kiss would be like; wondering what it would feel like to _know_ ; be in love _together_ ; probably the closest thing to euphoria that Good sides can feel; how beautiful she’d look knowing he loved her back, the light in her eyes; how lucky he’d feel to see it, how amazing it would be to to have something so wonderful for just the two of them to own--it so wide it was almost maniacal.

“..and Bellamy Blake hasn’t done anything...”

All that, waiting for someone to make the first move. Idiot.

“...Yet.”

_Idiot_.

“This is a tragedy,” Clarke continued, with her perfected fake pout. “Someone should do something.” She nodded, prim and proper. Only slightly undermined by the ratty t-shirt and her beaded nipples. “If it’s in his power to do so.”

Oh. Hell. Yes.

The phrase _ripe for the taking_ flashed across his mind.

“Well, what does this Bellamy Blake guy do?”

.o.

High School History Teacher.

_Fucking amazing._

Moved here when Octavia started college. Substitute history teacher before that, and a construction worker. Worked 90 hours a week to make a honest living for Octavia, who seemed like she was now rapidly climbing the corporate ladder after going to OSU. Working for a bank that Bellamy knew was ethically corrupt and thus very rich. Interesting. Always had wondered if His-Octavia (currently dating an older man Bellamy did _not_ like and making art in the mountains) was the good one or the bad one.

Good-Bellamy has checked-in on Facebook at AppleBee’s and Wendy’s three times each, although he stopped when he got the teacher job. His favorite book is Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography. He privately posts gym selfies and complains about leg-day. He goes to the gym _regularly_. Down-to-the-hour regularly. He also goes to the Ren Fest every year, and this year brought Clarke. They have a string of inside jokes that were written down on flashcards and memorized. He weirdly has all of the same bad habits and fears, even having gone to college and never having been in a street gang. He’s still terrible at math, which is a relief. Still afraid of spiders, bees, and escalators, although Good-Bellamy probably can’t pretend for shit.

In short, he’s an idiot.

Even knowing this, after weeks of Clarke’s information gathering and practicing, it was still fucking weird when he finally saw him in person. Friday afternoon. One year minus a day since Good-Clarke and Good-Bellamy met.

Going to be a special anniversary.

He met His-Clarke at an office supply store with the truck, parked in the back like she told him to. Met her inside. Followed the shrug of her shoulder to see a man facing the pen display--a 10 pack of pens in one hand, 20 pack in the other.

The man was average height, badly-fitting button down hiding the muscles he knew were there. Thick rimmed glasses that did nothing to make him look older. Ridiculous haircut like when Bellamy’s mom used to put a bowl on his head and cut his hair around that. Evidently just come from work.

He and Clarke followed Good-Him out of the store. He was walking toward a fucking bike rack. Would have passed right by the truck. Clarke pecked him on the lips before she walked over to Good-Him and pounced.

.o.

Good-Bellamy unconscious and tucked away in the truck. Clarke leaning into his side, pulled up good-Clarke’s contact on the BlackBerry they’d taken from his jacket. Just from their text history it was obvious that he adored her.

He watched Clarke type _How about going to the new Italian place tomorrow night?_ And for one wild moment it was like they were playing matchmaker. He couldn’t really believe this idiot hadn’t made a move yet and they’d known each other for a whole fucking year. Couldn’t really believe that they hadn’t met before then. They should have been college sweethearts or some shit by now. Clarke was the best thing that had ever happened to Bellamy. He was so fucking in love with her. Good-him was missing out.

He could imagine the blushing, wide-eyed face on the other side of the screen. Wondered if Good-Her muttered texts out loud too. Watched the ellipses rise and fall. _Okay, great_ with a smiley face emoji and a heart. Such a sweet girl. Candle-lit dinner to celebrate knowing each other a year. Could have been such a fairytale.

Then his Clarke handed him the phone with a wicked smile. The plan was in motion.


	2. Chapter 2

2011 Honda Accord turned into the parking lot. Parked second row back. Sun setting behind _Tersoro’s_ brick walls. Nice exterior. Softly lit.

He turned the key in the ignition and listened to the car shut off. Ran a hand through his hair. Double checked he had his wallet. Looked at the time. Nervous ticks that he’d gotten rid of after the third big-time gig but would wager _he_ didn’t even notice. Stepped out of the car.

The lot was full. Saturday night. Thirty feet away from the door voices, laughter, and metal clinking glass were already audible. Twenty five feet, the outlines of happy people eating and talking could be seen. Twenty feet, the white shirts and red ties of the waitstaff. Fifteen feet, a figure standing under the portico, lit up by the row-lights above her. Petite, curvy, long hair. Ten feet, _her_. Clarke Griffin.

Good Clarke Griffin.

She was wearing a baby pink dress with yellow flowers on it. It stopped mid thigh over black tights and heels. Her expensive pea coat was undone, showing off the low-neckline of the dress. It was freezing outside, even standing near the door. She had that jut to her chin that His-Clarke got when she was being stubborn. She’d parted the coat for him. _Oh baby._ Cheeks flushed and hands curled in her pockets, swaying from one foot to another.

She couldn’t have looked better if he told her what to wear.

He let his gaze flicker to her chest for just a moment before focusing on her face, then a quick glance down and away like he’d do if he were shy. He gave a small, nice-pleased smile. She smiled back, face wide with satisfaction that he’d noticed.

“Hi,” she said. Soft and sweet.

“Hey.” She wrapped her arms around him in a hug. Brief but familiar. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Your hands are freezing,” he said, all earnest. Brought them both in between his own. They fit within his entirely, just like His-Clarke’s. He looked at her as he brushed his thumbs over the soft skin of her wrists. Counted to two in his head for timing, then looked down at their hands. When he let go, she had her--Clarke’s--surprised-and-excited face on. Good.

“How was Indianapolis?” he asked. He held the door for her as they stepped inside.

“Fine, a little boring,” she replied. Paused so that he could tell the maitre‘d, “Table for two. Blake,” and caught his hand as they were led to his table. Her eyes widened at the candles and the bottle of french-sounding red wine the waiter opened for them. She narrowed her eyes in playful challenge.

“Fancy.”

He figured twenty-one-year-old-him’s overly-confident _this is my flirting face_ expression was about the right tone to say, “Well, it’s a special occasion.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Special occasion?”

He let his face soften. Confident but sincere: “We met a year ago today.”

The smile that brought out reminded him so much of His-Clarke when they first got together that the first thing he felt was deja vu. This current dark excitement echoed the nearly-overwhelming mix of anticipation, lust, and possessive love he used to feel seeing her sweet face when she came over. The same want to corrupt her and spoil her took hold, but now he had patience. He grinned back at her and asked how work was going.

Through the meal, he watched her. Ate the food the waiter brought for him, chimed in with the appropriate remark or inside joke, made sure Clarke's wine glass didn't go empty. Watched her laugh and gesture. Watched her go from sweet to snarky to mischievous as she drank. Watched her eyes widen every time he laughed at something she said. Nice to know Clarke's inability to lie after a two glasses was consistent across versions. She got extra-sensitive too. At least, His-Clarke did.

They split dessert. How close had Good-Him been to asking her out? It couldn't have been more than a few weeks until even that idiot got it together. They could have been so happy. It would have been awkward, tripping over their enthusiasm and affection. But pure, sweet. A love to last ages. He and His-Clarke already proved they were destined to be together, in whatever universe. They could have been smiling at each other fifty years from now, reminiscing about their first date, first kiss.  

But the universe put them both in a grocery store on the same Saturday morning and he was the one that got a glowing, half-in-love beauty sitting in front of him licking ice cream off a spoon. It was hard not to believe in fate in a universe that managed to make two of everyone.

She smiled at him. Her small, secret smile that he recognized from late night conversations and eighteenth birthday parties. He knew what she was thinking. What she was feeling. _In fifty years, we’ll be talking about how our first date was at Tesoro’s and it all started there._

Let it never be said he missed an opportunity created by cosmic accident.

He walked her to her car, but both of them knew they weren't saying goodbye. They stopped in front of it. He took a step into her. She matched it. Then she looked up at him. His breath caught when their eyes met. Hers did to, but out of nervousness, excitement, anticipation. She was about to kiss someone she’d been falling in love with. She’d thought about it, wondered about it. The moment it would happen. The first time she kissed the love of her life. Beautiful. Important. Life changing if only in its symbolism. A moment to remember.

That moment would belong to him.

This was what he had been waiting for.

His first kiss with his Clarke was one of his favorite memories. Sixteen and such a troublemaker. He never bothered to keep her out of anything. Let her inventory pills and research new clients. Answered all of her questions. Didn't even try not to stare. Neither did she. She was all fire and false-confidence. Waltzed into the house one day and swung her leg over him where he was sitting on the couch. Glared at his confused face. Pupils already dilated. He let her lead the kiss--sloppy, jittery, baby so nervous and turned on--until she pulled away. He took over. Pulled her down so she could grind against him. Slid one hand up her tank top, cupped her pretty, overwhelmed face in the other. Kissed her. Swallowed her little breaths and moans. Tweaked her nipples. It was wet and filthy. Pushed her into the couch and peeled off her shirt. Eventually scooped her up and brought her to his room. He didn't do slow.

But this wasn't like that.

He put his hands on her hips. Smiled down at her. Stepped toward her. Soft, hesitant. Gentle. Ran his unbroken knuckles over her cheek and pushed her hair behind her ear. Cupped her jaw to tilt her face towards his. Her pulse thudding beneath his fingers. Slowly, he brought his lips to hers. Like the man she was in love with would have done. Didn’t push or shove. _Later_. Just warm, inexorable. Cicadas quiet in the background. Eyes closed. He put all of the pure affection he had for His-Clarke into it. This Clarke was still a princess--she still deserved the world.

He pulled away. Grinned. She giggled up at him. Wine-flushed. Bit her lip.

“Can I tell you a secret?” God she was adorable. He nodded like he was an idiot in love. She stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “I really like you.”

He pulled her into his arms. Gentler than he would have. “I really like you too, Princess.” The nickname just slipped out. But she let out another breathless giggle.

This time he did push, a little. Kissed her with a hint of how much he wanted her. A hint of how good it would be. She gasped into his mouth like she’d never had it so good. Probably hadn’t. She pulled away and rocked back on her heels.

“Your place or mine?”

“Yours is closer.” And it was. He and His-Clarke had double checked.

Good-Clarke was grinning at him. Like an idiot in love.

“See you there.”

.o.

Some people called them good-sides and bad-sides. Some people called them _versions_. Others _souls_. There were scientific names and terms for the phenomenon, but more superstitions and myths than anything.

_For the original human nature was not like the present, but different. There were no good or bad natures, but only unions of the two, having a name which corresponded to this duplicity. A word now lost. Terrible was their might and strength, and the thoughts of their hearts were great, and they made an attack upon the gods. After which Zeus condemned them, and said, “We shall cut them into two.”_

Some insisted that good-sides were only good, bad-sides wholly evil. Still others argued that it was passion and discipline that divided the natures. No one agreed how similar the two versions were guaranteed to be. Names were often the same, but not always. What was known was this:

Good-sides and bad-sides are physically identical. Physiologically, mostly identical. Psychologically split. Same body, different spirit. The same person living in a different mental space.

The same figure unlocking a different apartment.

The same lips saying, “Would you like a drink?”

Different teeth swallowing a smug _no_ in favor of a goofy, “Not really.”

.o.

He kissed her hungrily, but still sweetly as they slow-walked down the hallway to her room. Roommate was out of town.

They undressed each other, all fumbling and giggles like a rom-com. Waiting for her to get the buttons undone was another reminder this shirt was fucking ridiculous, but the little kisses she pressed to his chest as she did so made up for it a bit.  _Kitten_. A fond memory of nineteen-year-old Clarke's girly-affectionate phase. He shrugged the sleeves off and finally slid his hands under her dress.

The whole thing, pulled over her head. Fingers skidding along her sides where Clarke was always sensitive. A moment to admire the lacy white bra pushing up her perfect tits. He brought her in for a kiss with one hand and undid the clasp with the other. (Let himself flash back to being seventeen and practicing that move over and over with Roma--he always felt smooth when he did that). Pushed her back to sit on the bed and pulled down her tights. Pressed his thumb to the pressure point Clarke had behind her knee. Lightly grazed her calves and in-steps as he removed the tights completely. As always, Clarke shivered. 

An adorable pair of matching panties. He slid them down her thighs and then there she was. Gold curls, swollen pink cunt. Politely wet already. Parted her legs and brought one over his shoulder. Dropped the Nice-Bellamy act. No way he was going down on her like that idiot would. There was only one right way to do it. He licked into her. Slowly, gently bringing her up to her first orgasm. Teasing. Up to the edge and back down. No surprises, except for the fact he seemed to know her so well already.

So much better than any first time exploration could be.

He felt it wash over her. Like a good girl, she was came quietly, with a little moan that would have been satisfying if he didn't know better. Slid two fingers into her and moved to whisper in her ear.

"I want to hear you."

Now he was a little rougher. Fucking her on his fingers and flicking her clit with his tongue. Little cries and moans. Whispered  _please_ and  _oh fuck_. Getting louder. She came again with a breathy, "Bellamy!"

Didn't give her a chance to rest before bringing her up again. Now she was really going. His name sounded so sweet in her mouth. Her third orgasm hit her and she shrieked. Three fingers inside her, massaging her through it. Clarke plateaued for what seemed like forever (so she'd said when they'd talked about it). She giggled when she got her breath back.

A soft kiss to the inside of her thigh, because she deserved it. Pants and boxers to the floor, because they were getting tight. Gratifying look of excitement and hesitation on her face, because she’d never taken something so big. Condom, because that’s what _he_ would do.

She gasped as he pushed into her. Little pants and struggle to regain her breathing. He gave her a moment to adjust. Leaned down to kiss her neck, cheek, collarbone. Felt her fingers fumbling at his side. Realized she was reaching for his hand. Laced their fingers together and pressed them above her head.

He set an easy rhythm and watched her eyes roll back. She wouldn’t say anything for a few minutes--after three orgasms, His-Clarke never did. But he could sometimes fuck something truly spectacular out of her. If he gave her a few minutes to wind up.

“I’ve been thinking about this for so long,” he whispered next to her ear. Licked along the shell. “Clarke…” nipped her ear lobe. “You feel so good, so hot and tight around me.” She moaned low in her throat. Squeezed her hand in his grip. Baby blue eyes blinked open, staring at him.

He let go of her hand and straightened upright. Grabbed one ankle and brought her delicate little foot to rest against his chest. Brought the other one up to. Held her ankles. The stretch was delicious. Her expression more so.

Then he really started fucking her. He tilted his hips so that he’d be hitting her g-spot on each downstroke. It didn’t take long to get her back up to the edge. Could see her building to it, chewing on her bottom lip and whining. She was looking at where their bodies connected, the same overwhelmed face that Clarke used to make. She swallowed.

“Please come in me,” she gasped out. “Please, please come in me.”

Very good baby. She was so close. He slammed into her.

“Please come in me, please--” cut herself off with a shriek as the words dragged her over.

Good girl.

He twisted his hip against hers and waited for her to work herself through the aftershocks. Recentered himself. Evened out his breathing. He wasn’t done.

He let her feet slip off his chest and splay open. She was still mumbling. Drunk on wine, blissed out and fucked out. Face so open. Eyes so wide. Pupils so dark. How much of this would she really remember tomorrow?

Hands over her stomach, on her hips. He used his grip to pull himself deeper into her. She made the familiar baby-girl whine. He smiled, a hint of his real smile (such a good girl). Started up again.

He drilled his hips into her, slow and deliberate. Slid one hand over so that his thumb rested against the hood of her clit. Quickened his pace. Savored her squirming discomfort as it turned into need. Whines into pants into moans. Rubbed little circles into her. Felt her tighten around him. It wasn’t enough though, sensitive as she was. She needed more.

“More, please.” High pitched, breathy, slurred. “Please.”

Faster, pounding into her again now. Her face screwed up like she was in pain. Because she was in pain, but she still wanted it. She was still getting close. He didn’t bother to mask his usual delight. Just like His-Clarke, she’d started convulsing. Her heels beat against his back. Thighs jostled against his sides like she was trying to close her legs, but couldn’t. Her hands were shaking. He bet if she opened her eyes she’d be crying. He slammed into her.

“Oh god,” she moaned. He let go of her hip and pinched her nipple until she shrieked. Flicked her clit hard and fast. She dug her heels into him and screamed, little body and big tits shuddering. He grit his teeth to last through it.

“Look at me,” he said as clearly as he could manage. “Hey, look at me.” He let off her clit and cupped her jaw.

She wrenched her eyes open. Tears leaked down her cheeks. Poor thing looked delirious.

“Whose are you?”

The immediate response sent him over the edge.

“Yours.”

He stilled and spilled into the condom. His vision whited out. Hands clamped down over her waist.

After a long moment, he let her go and slipped out of her. Collapsed next to her and closed his eyes. Took a long, satisfied breath.

Suddenly, he had an armful of Clarke. He opened his eyes to her face leaning over his. She kissed him sweetly, almost desperately. Unusual. His-Clarke dropped off almost immediately after sex like that. He kissed back lazily, let his hands brush up and down her back. Somewhere between her shoulder and the curve of her ass, it slotted into place. Not unusual.

His-Clarke’s eighteenth birthday party sizzled to the front of his mind. The first time he told her he loved her. The first time she told him she loved him. Too overwhelmed to be tired. He kissed Good-Clarke with all the same affection. She didn’t say anything, but relaxed into him. They made out for a few minutes until, dazed and happy, Clarke pulled away, smiled brilliantly at him, curled up on his chest, and fell asleep.

He shifted her to one side as a new feeling took over. Like motor oil over water.

Triumph.

He grinned. Eyes closed. His phone was in the kitchen, but he drafted a text to Clarke in his head anyway.

 _I win_.

.o.

Morning. Dark. Morning. Dark. Morning.

A head resting on his shoulder. Soft curvy body tucked into his. Long blonde hair fanned out in his face.

Heady, euphoric satisfaction. Molasses-like in his veins. _Rush_. This was the difference, really. Bad-sides weren’t all criminals. Or sadistic. They didn’t have an anti-moral code or an inherent desire to break the rules. They didn’t have a moral code at all. In its absence--the rush. Drive to fulfill a desire for desire’s sake.

He shifted under her. Not hard, but could get there. She was fast asleep. Somnophilia was Clarke’s thing. His-Clarke. He’d have to wake her up. And she’d been _such_ a good girl last night.

Pants and pansy-boots. Short walk to the corner store. Eggs, bread, jam, and a pack of black n milds. He already got what he wanted. Now he wanted a cigarette. He smoked with the window cracked as he made breakfast. Played soft indie-acoustic on his phone like he did for His-Clarke when she’d been good. Kicked off the boots and jeans. Wasn’t going to short her the full experience.

Footsteps in living room as he slid the eggs and toast onto a plate. Turned to see her standing in the doorway. Boyshorts and a tank top. Hair messy, face flushed. _Pretty girl_.

“Good morning,” she said, biting her lips. He gave his best attempt at a Mr. Nice Guy grin. She came over and wound her arms around his neck. He kissed her slow and deep, tongue probing her mouth gently. She pulled away. Brow furrowed. Glanced around. The cigarette in the window-sill.

“You don’t smoke,” she said slowly. He let her pull away enough to look at him. Kept a grip on her hip. Could see when the confusion turned to concern. Then to realization. He memorized the expression on her face. His cock twitched. Her eyes wide as the panic set in.

“Oh my god,” she breathed.

“Morning baby,” he said. Morning voice. Didn’t clear his throat. Her breath caught.

She tried to pull away but he clamped down hard. “You’re not Bellamy.”

“I most certainly am Bellamy, darling.”

“You’re not my Bellamy,” she said. Sounded like she was going to cry.

“Didn’t think he was your Bellamy, sweetheart,” he said. “He never made a move.”

Tears slid down the bridge of her nose. Little crybaby. He stiffened in his boxers. Chucked and wiped her tears away.

She thrashed and he grabbed her arm with his other hand. Pulled her into him easily.

“Besides,” licking up her neck, “he wouldn’t have fucked you like I did.”

“You’re evil,” she spat, voice trembling. “Let me go, I don’t--”

Skated a hand under her shirt. Twisted a nipple. Ignored her batting at his shoulder. “You liked it, baby.” Shook her head. “No? Came so hard. Wasn’t it nice?”

“Get off of me.” Slipped into her shorts. Wet around his fingers. She kicked out viscously and he caught both her wrists in a grip behind her. Thigh between her legs and pushed her back against the counter.  She was making adorable little grunts and whines, trying to get away.

“Bet it was the best night you’ve ever had.” Thumb against her clit, two fingers inside her. Physically identical. Clarke loved this shit.

She moaned. Tried to head butt him. He laughed. “No, you’re awful. I don’t want this.”

“Yes you do,” he cooed. Gathered up her tank top in a hand and pulled until it snapped at the straps and tore. She squeaked. Left red marks against her shoulder.

“You can tell yourself you only liked the sweet parts, baby.” Slid her shorts down her legs. She was shaking, tears in her eyes. “Only put up with the roughness because you’re generous. So polite.” Kicked her legs open and pulled himself out of his boxers. “But I know better, baby.” Jerked his cock a few times.

“Good and bad sides are identical in body.” He pushed into her. She started crying. “And I’ve had a lot  of practice with the bad version of you.” She gasped when he was fully inside her. Sore from last night. He paused. Looked her in the eye. She glared at him. Was so hot and tight around him. She spat in his face.

“Oh, bad girl, baby.” He pulled out and thrust back in. She shrieked. “I know every inch of this pretty body. I know exactly what to do to you to make you melt.” He set a hard rhythm, hitting her g-spot on every stroke. “I know exactly what you like. You can’t lie to me.”

“No,” she whined. Pitiful. She wailed every time he pushed into her. Shrieking. He fit his other hand around her throat. Silence instantly.

“I know you,” he whispered. She shook her head and he tightened his grip. Cutting off her airflow. She pulsed around him.

He let off. Let her gasp. Tightened again. Didn’t break rhythm. Could feel her whole body tense. She didn’t want to, but she was going to come. Poor thing couldn’t help it. He squeezed her throat until she really couldn’t breath. Fucked hard into her. Let her go on a downstroke and she exploded. Screamed as it washed over her. Didn’t slow down.

Her orgasm seemed to really break her. She started sobbing loudly. He fucked her until he felt her come around him again. She was shaking her head and whispering, “please, please, please.” Couldn’t tell what she was begging for.

He slammed into her and stilled. Orgasm hit like ecstasy. One of the best. He let her throat go and she gasped and spluttered. Leaned into her and bit her neck, sucking a mark in. Moved to her jaw and did it again. And to again. And again. Down her neck and chest, under her breasts. Her nipples. She wasn’t going to just wash him off.

She was limp in his hold. He slipped out of her and she fell against him, crying into his shoulder. He rubbed her back soothingly. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Such a good girl for me.” Brushed down the side of her face. She barely flinched.

“I hate you,” she whispered. He pushed her hair over her ear. “Not what you said yesterday,” he whispered. Kissed her softly on her forehead, then pulled back so that she could see him. Grinned at her. His own, son-of-a-bitch grin. She looked satisfyingly broken. Reached over her to the pencil cup behind her and grabbed a sharpie.

“You loved it baby,” he said, uncapping it with his teeth. “And you’re going to want it again.”

He flicked her nipple as he passed over her chest. Wrote his phone number on the skin of her upper arm, so she could see it. Goosebumps bloomed over her skin. Then, just because he could, he ran the tip over her hard nipple. She shivered. And again. Again. Colored her whole areola black as she trembled. Signed his name in a swoop just above it.

 _Bellamy Blake was here_.

Like spray painting the library walls with Miller when he was sixteen. Defacing something wholesome. _Rush_. He pressed a kiss to her temple and she shook him off again. He let her go.

With his Good-Bellamy face and voice he said, “Last night was really fun, we should do it again sometime.” She didn’t respond. He picked his keys up off the table. Took his phone out of his pocket. Snapped a picture of her frozen against the counter.

“Breakfast is for you.” Turned and walked out of her apartment.

Honda rolled out of the parking lot, across town. Home again. He had a text from Clarke.

_how did it go?_

He sent the picture he’d just taken. A moment later he got one in return. Good-Him, from the look of it. Tied to the cross in the basement. Hard as a rock.

 _Having fun?_ He sent. His phone pinged.

_so much fun_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on Tumblr @that-this-will-do


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